


do you got the moves

by ohtempora



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Blow Jobs, Drunk Sex, M/M, Voyeurism, World Series, lap dance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-05 14:20:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16369208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohtempora/pseuds/ohtempora
Summary: “I’d let you fuck me if I wasn’t so drunk,” Kiké mumbles, lips brushing over Cody’s cheek. He braces himself, fingers digging into Cody’s shoulder. It’s loud in the room, and Cody blinks, doesn’t know if he heard right.“What?”“Just saying.” Kiké wipes his face. “MVP, man.”





	do you got the moves

**Author's Note:**

> i am. very happy. 
> 
> cody bellinger, nlcs mvp! my dumb son! here's some fic. eat the red sox. this is my contribution. have some inspiring celebration photos! [a good look for chris taylor!](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/DqAMWQrV4AEAl1a.jpg:large) [thank you kiké and cody for posing like this!](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/DqAYQKaX4AAV8cD.jpg:large)
> 
> also in my head the lapdancing is to pa dentro by juanes.

After all of it — after Cody hits his homer and Chris makes that heartstopping catch and Yasiel hits that final drawn blood of a three run home run, after Kersh closes out the game with the surgical precision of someone who isn’t going to let this slip away again, after the celebration in the locker room and champagne in all their eyes, blinding them — Cody goes to bed. But first—

He’s drunk and soaked, shirt plastered to his back. He’s going back to the World Series. In the middle of May they were 16-26, they were ten games under .500, and none of it was a guarantee, but they were going to push. They knew. 

“Belli,” Chris says. He’s scrubbing at his face, droplets sliding down his nose and into his beard. “I don’t think champagne is good for my hair.”

“I think it’s great for your fucking hair,” Cody says, looping an arm around him and pulling him in. Chris laughs and squeezes his waist, leans against him. Cody only stumbles a little. “I think we’re gonna try and get you another champagne bath soon. That’s what I think.” 

Yasiel is dumping water on reporters and Kemp’s talking about finding the clubs in Milwaukee. Rich is spraying Manny with champagne and booing, right in his face. Kiké is twerking. There’s a beer bottle in his pocket and another beer bottle shoved down the back of his pants. Cody watches him for a moment. It’s pretty mesmerizing, even if he wasn’t so damn drunk.

They all know how this could end — how it feels when everything crashes down and someone else celebrates on your home field. Cody shoves it aside. Right now it doesn’t matter.

“I love you,” he says to Chris, because he’s said it to half the team, he hasn’t said it to Chris yet and Chris is his roommate, it feels wrong to leave him out. “I love this team.”

“Me fucking too,” Chris says, and pours half a bottle of champagne directly into Cody’s mouth. 

Everything only escalates from there. Cody loses track of how much he drinks but it doesn’t matter. Manny pours champagne on him and like half the bullpen does too, everyone wants a piece of him and he wants to give it to all of them. Wants to stay with his boys, whooping and screaming forever. 

He takes a shirtless photo with Kiké that definitely ends up on the internet, then loses him in the crowd. The next time Kiké finds him he’s wasted, hair wet and plastered against his skull. 

“I’d let you fuck me if I wasn’t so drunk,” Kiké mumbles, lips brushing over Cody’s cheek. He braces himself, fingers digging into Cody’s shoulder. It’s loud in the room, and Cody blinks, doesn’t know if he heard right.

“What?”

“Just saying.” Kiké wipes his face. “MVP, man.”

“I don’t know where the trophy went,” Cody says. “I put it down somewhere.”

“Oops.” Kiké laughs and kisses his cheek. At the last second, Cody turns his head too far so that their mouths barely miss each other. No one’s looking. Even if they were they wouldn’t care. 

“Is that a real offer?” he asks. He’s not — not interested. He’s seen Kiké twerk. 

“Yeah.” Kiké gulps down some more beer. “‘M really too drunk though. For that. But—”

“You should—” Cody searches for the right words. He didn't know how much he could want this until a second ago. “When we head back to the hotel. Come with.”

“Okay,” Kiké says. His hand wanders, squeezes Cody's ass before he tumbles off.

Eventually the party starts to wind down. That, or they run out of alcohol. Cody’s sure it’s both. Some of the guys are making noise about going clubbing, but he’s got a plan now. They work their way out of the stadium, pile onto the buses. Someone’s playing music, rap thudding through speakers. Chris is next to him, and Cody waits in the aisle so Chris can have the window.

Thankfully the ride to the hotel isn’t long. 

“Kiké’s coming back with me,” he says to Chris. He doesn’t know why the urge to tell someone strikes him, why it has to be his  _ roommate _ , but it’s there. 

“He offer?” Chris’s voice is low. There’s a flat lack of surprise in his tone and Cody doesn't know how to feel about that. 

“He said I could fuck him if he wasn’t so drunk.” Saying that aloud is weird, makes him shiver. Knowing what he could do.

“You want that?”

“Yeah,” Cody says. “Yeah, I — you should come back with us too.” Another urge, the words tripping out of his mouth. He shouldn't, they live together, but he wants to make Chris react, and the thought of Chris watching them, kissing him, makes him flush hot. He's tried to ignore thoughts like that before but they're going to the World Series. Tonight he gets to want things.

“Oh.” Cody watches Chris’s mouth form the word, the soft sound of his surprise. “You —really?”

“I want that too.” He swallows. “I’m gonna check with Kiké. But.”

“Okay.” Chris reaches, touches his wrist, then lets his hand fall away. “I can do that.”

“Also I lost my MVP award.” Cody giggles. “I don’t know where I put it.”

“Jesus.” Even Chris’ exasperation sounds fond right now. “It’s probably in the locker room. You can get it tomorrow.”

Cody slides his phone out of his pocket and sends Kiké a text, waits for the thumbs-up emoji when he says,  _ Chris is coming too _ . Kiké messages back almost immediately. 

“He said yeah,” Cody mutters, tilting the screen so Chris can see. 

“Alright.” Chris bites his lower lip, the side of his hand brushing against Cody’s, and doesn’t say anything else.

The team bus parks at the hotel and the slow process of getting themselves off starts. Chris is right next to him, and Kiké was sitting a few rows up ahead. Cody finds him, grabs him when they get into the elevators. Everyone else is just loud, making noise, carrying around stray champagne bottles.

Anticipation curls in his gut, takes hold.

They get into the hallway and all spill into Cody’s hotel room. It’s a mess — he trips over his spare dress shoes, discarded on the floor — but who cares. He’ll pack tomorrow. Kiké has both hands on his ass and Chris is watching them, his eyes dark.

“Get in the chair,” Kiké says, tapping Cody on the shoulder. “We’re gonna party.”

Cody gets in the chair. Chris goes to sprawl across his bed, like he’s not sure what anyone wants him to do. 

Kiké puts music on, then sets his phone down on the dresser. A slow beat starts emanating from the speakers, and he climbs into Cody’s lap, just like that.

“Oh shit,” Cody says, and Kiké smirks down at him and starts to move along with the music. He twists his hand in Cody’s necklace, gyrating, and it’s —  _ fuck _ .  

Cody reaches, wraps his hands around Kiké’s waist.

“Yeah, like that,” Kiké says. He circles his hips again, grinding down into Cody’s lap. He’s wearing his baseball pants, hasn’t changed from the lockers. They’re pushed up to his knees. He picked up slides somewhere. Cody runs a hand up over Kiké’s back, feels his shoulders move.

“Did you do this last year?” he asks.

“Not for me.” Chris laughs. “He just danced on JT.”

“You’re missing out,” Cody says. He touches Kiké’s shoulders again, then his ass, because he can. “Fuck.”

“Got a good view.” 

Chris is on the bed, watching them through half-closed eyes. He's got a hand resting on his inner thigh, but he isn't doing anything yet. Cody lets his head tip back. He can see where Kiké is hard in his pants, straining against the buttons. He slips his fingers into the belt loops, tugs. Another button pops open.

If he leaned in he could kiss Kiké's chest, taste skin and salt and champagne. 

"Bet I could make you come like this," Kiké says. He presses the pad of his thumb against Cody's lower lip. "Bet it'd be easy."

Fuck, Cody's so wired. Adrenaline from the game, the high of winning, the alcohol buzz. He loves baseball so much. 

"Probably," Chris says. Cody turns to look at him. He's smiling, lips quirked. "Bet you could."

Kiké raises an eyebrow. "Oh?" 

He and Chris haven't, really, outside of the time they managed to convince a girl to come home with both of them, kissed each other when she asked them to. Cody's thought about it outside of that. What it'd be like to kiss him, with the beard, if his skin would get red under Chris's mouth. 

If they hadn't won the pennant this would be a bad idea. If they hadn't won the pennant they wouldn't be here.

Chris shrugs. His hand is inching closer and closer to his dick. He's clearly into it, into watching them. "C'mon," he says. 

"Alright, fuck." Kiké taps Cody on the shoulder. "I'm gonna kiss you now."

"That a warning?" Cody laughs, but he tilts his head up and meets Kiké halfway, lips parted so Kiké can press in. As expected, he tastes sweet-sharp, like champagne. It's a good kiss.

They break apart and Kiké kisses the corner of his jaw, then his neck, sucks on the skin there until Cody shudders. Kiké has one hand on his shoulder, but the other is everywhere, pinching his nipple, sliding around his lower back to cup his ass. He's circling his hips in a smooth, steady rhythm. There's too much cloth between them but he doesn't want Kiké to take the baseball pants off. Cody switched into athletic shorts, stripping off his booze-soaked clothes, and the rub of nylon over his dick is a slow torture. 

The music on Kiké's phone is still playing, bass vibrating through shitty speakers, and Kiké's moving with it. Cody hears Kiké's breath, then a sharp inhale from the bed that tells him Chris is finally touching himself, giving in. 

"Is this why you learned to twerk?" Cody asks, and Kiké laughs breathlessly.

"What else you want me to do with this ass?" He kisses Cody again, grinds down with more purpose. They've got all the time in the world to go slow but Cody can feel the orgasm building, and he rocks up against Kiké's ass, then grabs it. "Yeah," Kiké says. "Yeah, come on—" and Cody pulls him even closer. 

Kiké's mouth is shining wet. Cody kisses him, then twists to look at Chris, how he's got one hand fisted in the sheets, the other slipped under his waistband and working his dick. 

"Do it," Kiké says, then again, "come on, Belli, come on." 

Cody grinds up against him again and again and comes hard, burying his face in Kiké's neck. "Jesus," he says. Kiké doesn't stop moving, and sharp sparks go through him, almost too much. Cody moans.

"Oh, fuck, I could feel that." Kiké finally slows down, but he doesn't get out of Cody's lap.

Cody lifts his head up. "I can't believe I came in my shorts. I haven't done that since I was a teenager."

"Like that was that long ago," Chris says. 

Kiké snorts. "Right."

"Hey," Cody protests, but he's feeling good, loose-limbed and happy. He looks down at Kiké’s crotch, where he’s straining against the pants. “You should get those off.”

“Yeah?”

“Lemme help.” He’s not too tired to leave Kiké out in the cold. “I can suck you off, whatever you want.”

“Fuck.” Kiké inhales. “That sounds good.”

“I don’t want to get up though.” Cody reaches, pops another button, rubs his hand over the bulge in Kiké’s briefs. “Can we—”

“Here, yeah.” Kiké looks at the bed. “Can you see?” Chris gives a thumbs-up, and Kiké starts giggling. “Alright, alright.”

Cody slides off the chair and onto the floor, and Kiké yelps, steps back so they don’t collide. It takes a minute but they get themselves situated, Kiké in the chair, Cody kneeling in front of him. He slides Kiké’s baseball pants down so they’re at his knees, rubs his hand over Kiké’s dick again before he pulls it out.

He looks, for a moment, easing Kiké’s briefs off. Kiké’s dick is red at the tip and hard and Cody wants to get his mouth on it, keep the celebration going, make Kiké feel good too. He licks over the head, curling his tongue, listening for a gasp, any sound of approval. 

Kiké touches his shoulder, and Cody pulls back and says, “You can put your hands in my hair, I don’t care.”

“Okay, cool,” Kiké says, and does so.

Sucking dick is easy once he gets into the rhythm of it. Kiké’s so responsive, petting his hair, rolling his hips up slowly. Cody lets him, his jaw slack. He can hear Kiké's soft moans, the creak and shift of the bed as Chris starts jerking himself in earnest again.

"He looks good," Kiké says, conversational, touching Cody's lip again, where his dick is pressing in. 

"Yeah," Chris says. "Yeah, fuck, he does, Belli, you really do."

Cody thinks about doing this again — for either of them — thinks about reciprocation, Chris's mouth or bending Kiké over. He's too tired, too drunk still to go again, but it's a good thought. He pulls back and mouths around the head of Kiké's dick, then takes him back in. 

Kiké's moaning, and his dick twitches in Cody's mouth. Cody'll swallow, he doesn't give a fuck. He sucks harder, inches down further, lets Kiké push into his mouth again and again until he's gasping out a warning and Cody's mouth tastes salt-bitter over the tang of champagne.

He pulls back and wipes his mouth, sitting back on his heels. Chris is fucking up into his own fist up on the bed, and Cody stares at him, watches Chris look back until he's spilling over his hands, groaning.

"Congrats, boys," Kiké says, getting up and heading towards the bathroom. "We're going to the World Series."

We're going to the World Series. Cody wants to say it again and again and again.

He has to clean up; his shorts are sticking to him and there are clean boxers to sleep in somewhere on the floor. Instead he clambers up onto the bed and collapses next to Chris.

Chris smiles at him, shifts so Cody can lean on his shoulder, the way they do sometimes when they're watching TV at home. He kisses Cody's cheek. "Congrats," he says again.

"It was pretty cool," Cody agrees, and kisses him properly. Chris's beard is softer than he expected against his cheeks. He says so, and Chris grins.

Kiké comes back sans pants with a washcloth, tosses it at Cody. It smacks him in the stomach, cold and wet. "Deal with that so we can go to sleep," he says. 

"Alright, fine." He scrubs some of the jizz off, leans off the bed to fish his boxers off the floor and wriggles out of the athletic shorts. "Happy?"

"Yeah." Kiké gets on the bed too. "You want us to go?"

"No." Cody shakes his head. He wants to be with his team. He never wants them to break apart. They've got four more wins to get. "Stay."

Chris yanks at the top sheet until it's more or less covering them. “Boston?” he asks.

“Boston,” Cody agrees, and drapes his arms across both of them. “Let’s go and get it.” 

“World Series, baby,” Kiké says. They’re gonna do it. Cody’s excited. It’s going to be so good. 

**Author's Note:**

> cody did actually misplace his mvp award. this is my new favorite thing.


End file.
